Clouds. His mother had loved clouds. She’d told him, when he was a round-faced little boy, four, with dirty feet and torn clothes, that clouds were sky ships, sailing through an ocean of blue just like the real ships plowed through blue, foamy seas. She’d pulled him up in her lap and told him the stories. Her apron had smelled like the thick, caked soap she used to wash clothes. But that had been before…and this was after. He was a man now and he had no mother, no memories, and he didn’t look at clouds. Daydreams were not allowed.